Tengo Suerte
by Mi Mariposita
Summary: It's not where you start, but where you end up.


**Tengo Suerte**

=/\=

_Yes, I'm adopted._

_My folks were not blessed_

_With me in the usual way._

_But they_picked_me_

_They_chose_me_

_From all the rest,_

_Which is a lot more than most kids can say._

\- Shel Silverstein, "_Jake Says..._"

=/\=

It's so weird to hear people talk about adoption. I've never heard anyone say they're flat out against it, but when I'm reading opinion editorials on gay marriage, a lot of the arguments against it say that marriage is for having children and that children are best raised by the two parents who made them. The authors usually have a little blip about how they're not against adoption - well, straight adoption anyway, but I don't really understand how they can say that, given the bulk of their argument.

But this isn't really about gay marriage. It's just... weird. I read a lot about nature versus nurture, and I wonder how Jack and I would have turned out if we had been raised by our birth mother.

I know we were the product of teenage pregnancy. Part of me wants to assume that that means we would have had a less than stellar life had we stuck around with our birth mom, but I've heard a lot of success stories about teenage parents, and I don't want to be judgmental.

I've been told that if you just saw the four of us, we wouldn't look like a biological family. My blonde hair and Jack's brown eyes kind of throw the whole thing off. But if you spend time with us, apparently, you'd swear we shared the same genes. Jack and I always laugh when people tell us how much like our parents we are. It's kind of funny, in a way. Nature versus nurture and all.

I wish I looked like my parents, even a little. I wish I had my mom's eyes or my dad's smile. Sometimes, I like to pretend I do. But I know there are some things nurture can never change.

I don't know if Jack's as curious about our birth parents as I am. We don't really talk about it much. Honestly, neither of us really likes being reminded that our real parents aren't our birth parents. I know it shouldn't matter - in my heart of hearts, I _know_ that, but it still bugs me. My parents are my parents, and it's terrifying to think I could have had such a different life.

I know that our birth mother had no idea how Jack and I would turn out, and I know we wouldn't have turned out the same if she had kept us or even if she had picked another couple, but I can't help but feel a little... deflated. Jack and I are interesting people. Talented, too. He's a great baseball player, and I'm a flutist – just like my mom. I've been first chair since my freshman year. We're both in the top ten of our graduating class.

Who would give us up?

I don't ever want to take my parents for granted, mostly because I know they weren't. Things could have been so different. I just love them so much, and I'm so incredibly grateful for everything they've done for me. I could never ask for better parents.

But sometimes I just feel so conflicted. I know there's so much more to it than I can possibly see, but every time it comes to mind, I just think: she consciously chose to give us up. I have no sympathy for her. I just can't muster it.

I feel like an awful person. I barely know anything about her. I know she was a teenager, and I know she has kids now. Her real family.

I'm jealous. What makes _them_ so special? Why did she keep _them_?

But then I feel awful. I shouldn't be jealous. I love my parents. I do, I do, I do! I don't want my namesake to be my mom. I just want _my_ mom to be my mom.

I'm a horrible person. I have to be. I shouldn't even let myself think these thoughts.

I wish I didn't know. I wish they never told Jack and I that we were adopted. We were really too young to understand what it meant at the time, but over the years our parents just told us that they wanted to make sure we knew. They felt we deserved to know. And I'm grateful - I am; I'm so grateful to have parents that respect me and treat me like more than just a kid. But sometimes I just wish I didn't know. I wish this stuff didn't creep its way into my brain.

There's a knock on my door. "Er?" It's dad; I know by his knock, but his voice confirms it. He opens the door. "Your mom and I are about to watch some _Criminal Minds_. You interested?"

"Yeah," I say, untangling myself from my blanket. "Just give me a minute. I have to pee."

He chuckles. "Think we can convince your mom to make some popcorn?"

"Convince mom to spend time in the kitchen? Yeah, that'll be hard," I mutter, pulling myself out of bed. My hair's piled into a messy bun on top of my head, and the pant legs of my red and white checkered pajamas are rolled to different lengths. Dad smiles at me. "What?"

"Nothing," he says, shaking his head. "I just keep thinking about when you were just a little bitty baby."

"Yeah," I say, and I can't help the goofy smile that creeps onto my face. "I was pretty cute." I meander toward him and the doorway.

"You're still pretty cute, Er," he says, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. He gives me a quick squeeze. "My cute little baby girl."

"Hey!" Jack cries from his room across the hall. "I was a way cuter baby than she was."

"As if! I was ten times cuter than you'll ever be."

"You're both adorable," Mom says from the bottom of the stairs. "Are you guys ready for movie night?"

"Depends," Jack says, following Dad down the stairs as I make a beeline for the bathroom. "Are you making popcorn?"

I smile. I can't stay mad at my birth mother. She gave me the greatest gift I've ever gotten; she gave me my family. And really, that's all I need to know.

=/\=

Author's Note: I don't pretend to understand how all adopted children feel, but I know how I feel. Here's my two cents in regards to Erica Bing.


End file.
